"And so you'll turn highwayman, will you, you young dog?" continued the carpenter, cuffing him soundly,—"rob the mails, like Jack Hall, I suppose. He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth. She glanced into his face. His salvation—if there was to be any—lay in her ignorance of life. He has been lodged in every round-house in the metropolis, and has broken out of them all, and boasts that no prison can hold him. That was something in his favour. I believe I am getting impudent. "Wretch!" she cried, "you shall not force me to your hateful purpose.
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